Unforgivable
by AMemorableOddment
Summary: Could be a one-shot, but we'll see. Seven-year-old Draco unexpectedly learns about the Unforgivable Curses from each of his parents. Both have a lot to teach him, and each have a very different... style. Rating for mild/implied abuse.


"Draco, come into the study."

He had not prepared for this afternoon lesson, but, like most seven-year-olds, Draco Malfoy did not care. He troubled himself with nothing other than his playthings: the roaring dragon figure which toddled around his room and shot off sparks, his Collectors' Edition set of pewter Gobstones, and, most importantly, a tiny but pristine oak broomstick which rose three feet off the ground. His silver and black chess set lay forgotten, the pawns scattered across his bedroom floor; the tapestry of his astronomy chart was ripped and silver stardust had spilled across the bottom of his toybox; and the aged, dusty, pictureless, colourless books with titles such as _The Turning of Time _and _The Wizard and His Watchdog_, apparently beloved by his mother and her sisters, would remain unread for the entire length of his boyhood.

He went through the door, but stopped at the sight of his mother. She faced the window, the sunlight streaming over her so that she gleamed a cold and beautiful white, shining from the roots of her hair and the icy skin of her face to the hem of her silky robe. Though by no means a muscular woman, she closed the heavy curtains quickly, tying the sash, and turned towards him, motioning for him to sit down at his father's desk. He did so, his child's body sinking into the leather chair.

She said nothing, and he felt her eyes searching him. This, however, was not unusual; Draco had learned quickly to accept appraisal from adults. Everyone who visited the manor seemed to watch the small, pale boy very closely at all times, even as his father spoke directly to them. No one spoke to him, but as he lifted his fork to his mouth or scribbled pictures of dragons with his quill, he constantly sensed that he was being smothered by the walls, that all of the corners of the room were folding in towards him, and he just as quickly made his excuses. Wine and politics distracted the adults so that he could escape, but once he was safely enclosed in his bedroom, he almost wished for their persistent stares. Gobstones was difficult to play alone, and the toy dragon had begun to light the bedspread on fire when he wasn't looking.

"Draco."

"Yes, Mother?"

She bit her lip, and, to his horror, her eyes filled with tears. He had never seen her cry before; in fact, he had not been entirely sure that anyone in the house except for him was able to.

"Mother?"

Narcissa cleared her throat briefly. "I have an important lesson to teach you today."

"What is it?"

She walked to the window, reaching as if to undo the sash, then put her arms at her sides again as quickly as she had moved. He heard her exhale deeply, her breath rolling in waves.

"Though I have always told you that magic can provide everything, that is not quite the truth," she said quietly, her back to him. "Spells, no matter how complex, can bring one everything he desires, but that does not stop his wants from conflicting with the laws of magic themselves, diverting his purpose and and oftentimes… directly intersecting with the will of others."

_What?_ he asked.

She sighed at his bemused expression. "That is to say, just by using magic, one cannot have everything that he wants."

Draco frowned. "Why not?"

"Well, there are certain elements which affect magic. One example is time: if one does not have enough time to cast a defensive spell, he will find his spell weakened by the delay. Another concept is might. If the defensive spell one casts is weaker than the offensive spell, one will find himself thwarted by the attacker."

He relaxed in the chair. "I know that already."

"But there is something you do not know, Draco," Narcissa said softly, her hand gripping her wand. "There are three spells that have no countercharm, and, while they can be blocked by many basic shield charms, they cannot be undone."

She held him in her gaze. "What are they?" he asked.

"Many call them the Unforgivable Curses." She paused. "There are three. The first: The Imperius Curse, which controls the defender so that he must do the attacker's bidding, whatever he desires."

"It can be anything?" He imagined forcing the Gringotts goblins to load his money bag with every Knut in the entire vault… or making his father buy him a real broomstick, the kind that sent him soaring towards the clouds…

"Yes, Draco. Anything." She spoke shortly, glaring. "The curse is not used for the lighthearted amusements and purposes I daresay you are imagining, but mainly to force wizards to kill others so that the attacker does not have to do so."

"Oh."

"Yes." She cleared her throat again. "The second curse is the Cruciatus Curse, designed to provide the greatest amount of torture to the wizard on the receiving end of the spell. The spell delivers otherworldly pain and torment. It is used most often in interrogations, so that hostages will speak more easily."

"The worst pain? Worse than breaking your arm?"

"Worse than you can imagine," she said, staring at the drawn curtains, "the feeling of your entire body bursting into flame… every nerve shaking, your entire person suffocated, choked, and consumed by it…"

He shuddered. "What's the last one, Mother?"

But she would not, or could not, speak, staring at the closed window.

"Mother? What's the third curse?"

She turned to look at him, her expression still vacant. "I'm … sorry, Draco."

"Well? The third curse?"

"The third curse. The _Avada Kedavra_. Once the attacker has spoken this curse, it instantly ends the life of the defender."

"What?"

"Yes. The defender dies immediately upon the event of contact." She resumed pacing, her heels clicking on the wood. "And as it is Unforgivable, there is no known countercurse which can revive the victim."

He stared at her. "Why?"

His mother stopped. "What do you mean, why?"

"Why can't you bring them back?"

Her thin lips were shaking. "If someone intends to kill someone else, they will do so. There is no way to stop them."

"There isn't?"

Tears snaked their way down her face as she sat down on the edge of the desk, her back to him. "No." She covered her face. "No… there isn't." Her shoulders shook violently as she wept into her hands. "There… isn't… any… way."

He slowly got up from the chair, approaching her as if she were mad. "Mother?" She did not respond. "Mother?" he asked again, stepping an inch closer. When she continued to cry, he cautiously touched her leg with his hand. For a second she was still, but then, very suddenly, she put a wet palm under each of his arms and pulled him to her. He slipped his arms around her waist, resting his head in her lap, and she rocked back and forth, clinging to him as though he was the last plank of wood in the ocean.

Her sobs abated eventually, giving way to an uneven shudder, but she still held her son in her arms. "Mother," he said, almost shyly, "did someone you know use those bad Curses?"

"Yes," she said, wiping her face on her sleeve.

"Who was it?"

She didn't answer.

"Did someone you know die from one of them?"

"Yes."

"Was he a friend of yours?"

She could not stop shaking, it seemed. Draco wondered if she would drop him, but she managed to nod.

"What was his name?"

When she spoke again, her voice was coated in tears. "His name was Edward."

"A touching story, I'm sure," said a silky voice from the doorway, and mother and son froze together. Narcissa set Draco down at once, moving from the desk to stand upright. "Mrs Malfoy, you look a dreadful mess," Lucius said, selecting a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger and flicking it away as though it disgusted him. She flinched, her eyes low. "Makeup smudged, clothes awry… what on earth could be the matter with you?"

"I-I apologize, Lucius. I feel… rather unwell."

"Hmm," he mused, his eyes now on his son. "And why, pray tell, is Draco here to witness you falling so terribly ill?"

"I was teaching him this afternoon," she murmured.

"And what did you learn, Draco?" he asked, glancing at him.

Draco looked to his mother, who appeared to want to answer, but Lucius silenced her with a glance. "I asked you, Draco. What did you learn today?" A pause. "Answer me."

"N-nothing."

"Nothing. You learned nothing?" Lucius advanced towards him as Draco backed towards the wall.

"No—Father—I—I learned about… the Unforgivables." He leaned against the wall, breathless.

A small smile appeared on his fathers thin face. "The Unforgivable Curses. What advanced subject material for a child of your age. How astute of your mother to assume you would understand—"

"Lucius, I did not think—"

"Silence." Narcissa's breathing had quickened. Lucius continued to smile at his son. "Well, Draco, what is your favourite Unforgivable Curse?"

"I… I don't have a favourite?"

His father's jaw dropped in mock astonishment. "No favourite? Well, that will have to change right away. A wizard must always pick his favourite Unforgivable Curse."

"But why, Father?"

"Why, in case he ever needs to use them!" Lucius said brightly. "So that one will be fresh in his mind."

"But why would he need to use them?" Draco asked.

Lucius stopped smiling, and Draco and Narcissa both tensed unconsciously. He peered at Draco. "Tell me, Draco, did your mother actually demonstrate the Curses for you?"

"N-no…"

"Really," said Lucius, glancing at his wife with disdain. "Well… perhaps that is a lesson I can share with you right now."

"What?" Draco asked, startled by his mother's sharp intake of breath.

"Oh, don't worry, Draco. I'm not going to demonstrate the Curses on you." He waited, as though Draco was supposed to be immensely relieved by this news, but his son only looked more troubled. "You see, Draco, I've brought along a friend," Lucius said, the saccharine smile spreading over his face again. "His name is Mr Bentley. Have a guess as to what he does for a living."

"Does he… w-work for the Ministry of Magic?"

"No, Draco, he doesn't. Have another guess."

"He… runs a shop in Diagon Alley?"

Lucius laughed. "Mr Bentley doesn't do that either, but I think he wants to. You see, Draco, I met Mr Bentley when he was trying to get into Diagon Alley. He was tapping bricks with his fingers, the silly man, but he didn't know which ones they were in the first place. Do you know why that is?"

"N-no…" Draco said, slinking away from his father.

Lucius shook his head contentedly. "Come now, Draco, you're a smart boy… but I'll tell you anyway." He dropped his voice as though he and Draco were discussing a friend's surprise party. "Mr Bentley doesn't know how to get into Diagon Alley because he is a taxicab driver."

"So… he's a Muggle?" Draco whispered.

"That's right," said Lucius, "he's a filthy Muggle… a Muggle who tried to get into _our_ world. So, Draco, I will demonstrate the Unforgivables on Mr Bentley for you. I think he will very much enjoy contributing to your education."

"No… maybe… maybe he was just lost, Father… I don't think he really wanted to—"

"Well, why don't we go and ask him?" Lucius' hand was ice against Draco's back, and he tried hard not to shiver as his father led him from the room.

"Lucius—please—"

"Kindly move, Narcissa."

"If you want to have your fun with the Muggle, be my guest, but leave Draco—"

"Narcissa, be silent—"

"He shouldn't see this, Lucius, please, don't—"

Lucius slapped her, and the resulting silence was too loud for Draco to hear their conversation. She moved back, allowing them to pass, the mark cold and red on her cheek. "You do not disagree with me, Narcissa," Lucius said calmly. "A wife is always obedient."

Draco looked over his shoulder at his mother as his father led him away, half-expecting her to break down again, but she merely looked helpless. "I'm sorry," she mouthed, but Draco was already tripping on his too-long expensive robes as Lucius led him through the corridor.


End file.
